October 19, 2021
Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.
The thought, a mantra fervent as any prayer, rang through her mind, her entire body, her entire being, consumed with only this, this desperate, clawing need, this aching hunger, this shattering relief, and the fear of losing it. That was the way of things, wasn't it; when she finally wrapped her hands around the desires of her heart they were, inevitably, ripped away from her, and she could not bear to lose this, and so great was her terror at the thought of losing it, of losing him that she would not see herself parted from him, not even for the instant it would take to draw breath.
Instead she clung to him, and him to her, with a mad desire, beyond all realm of reason or restraint.
In her office, in the middle of the day, plainly visible through the half-open blinds on the windows, they flung themselves wholly, bodily from the cliff where they had been dangling since his return, and were free falling now, nothing to hold on to but one another. And oh, but he was holding on; he'd pressed her so far back against the credenza she was almost sitting on it, would have been if not for his hand, broad and strong, clutching at her ass, kneading her flesh and rocking her hips forward to the place where she could feel his cock, rock-hard now, for her, because of her. He was standing between her parted thighs, the toe of her boot rucking up the leg of his pants in a desperate bid to draw closer to him, his tongue heavy in her mouth, the hand not currently occupied with her ass splayed out along the side of her throat, his thumb resting on the beat of her wildly thrumming pulse. Maybe he could feel it, the rush of her blood in her veins; maybe he wanted to feel it, that sure and certain proof that she was alive, and here, with him.
As if he should have any cause to doubt it, when her tongue was sliding along his, curling against the roof of his mouth, their lips swollen and bruised from the force with which they'd come together, their kiss wet and messy and unrelenting. Her dark hair fell in a curtain all around them, shielded their faces from view, gave them a false sense of privacy, but in truth they gave no thought to being discovered at all. How could they find it in themselves to care, really, when for the first time in nearly a quarter century she'd finally allowed herself to admit out loudly how badly she wanted him, when he'd finally staked his claim on her heart, the way they'd both longed for, the way they'd both always thought he'd never be able to? It was an impossibility, the taste of him on her lips, the burn of his stubble on her cheeks, but it was happening, and she never, ever wanted it to end, and would not stop for the sake of her employees' sensibilities. Not that they'd mind; they all knew, anyway. Everybody knew. It was a secret they'd never been able to hide, her love of this man, his love of her, not from anyone save themselves.
She could smell him, familiar and safe and warm, the aftershave he'd favored since Italy, the mint from his gum, the stale leather from the steering wheel in the police-issue sedan he'd driven here in. She could hear him, the harsh, desperate breaths sucked in through his nose, the heavy exhale when she sank her teeth into his bottom lip and pulled him closer, the groan when she ground forward against his cock. She could feel him, his cock heavy and hard against her through her slacks, and her slick and wet and ready for him in a way five minutes of kissing hadn't made her feel since she'd turned fifty, her thighs widening of their own accord as if her body just knew that if she opened herself up far enough he'd be able to sink inside her. Christ, she wanted him inside her, above her, wanted his hands on her skin, and not ghosting over her clothes, wanted to push him down in her chair and settle herself over him and ride him, wanted to draw him so far inside her that he'd never, ever leave her, wanted everything, and was burning alive with it.
And he wanted, too; she could feel his want, in the feverish, suffocating power of his kisses, in the dig of his fingers, curling into her ass, in the rocking of his hips, thrusting against her, promising her everything. She could feel his want in the hand that cradled her neck. The hand that started to move, as their kisses only dragged on, the hand that drifted away from her neck to tangle in thickness of her hair, and suddenly he fisted that hair tight between his fingers and tugged, not sharp or hard but insistent enough that she followed his command, broke from his kiss with a gasp of laughter on her lips and tilted her head back as he'd demanded, gave him room to drop his mouth down to the curve of her neck just below her jaw, where he sank his teeth, not hard enough to break the skin but not gentle, either. That was ok; she didn't want gentle, not from him.
With a single minded determination he sucked her flesh between his teeth, and she could feel the sting of those teeth even as she could feel his tongue licking tenderly at her skin and he was leaving a mark, she knew he was, but he was making her head spin, too, and her hips bucked into his wildly, involuntarily.
"Ask me to come over tonight," Elliot growled suddenly, halting his efforts at marking her to lick a stripe from her neck up to the lobe of her ear.
"Elliot," she breathed, struggling to form a rational thought. An alarm bell was ringing somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice screaming at her to stop, to think, to be careful, but she couldn't for the life of her remember why she ought to stop, and her thoughts were hazy and unfocused beneath the cloud of lust that had fallen over them both.
"Don't think about it," he insisted, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke. "Ask me to come over tonight."
It was a mistake, maybe, him breaking their kiss, him talking, him giving her the chance to gather her wits; she'd been on the verge of letting him fuck her right there in her office, if she were being honest, but he'd spoken to her, and in so doing had forced her to think, whether he wanted her to or not, and she lifted her hands, placed them both squarely on his broad, solid chest, and pushed him back a little, just far enough for her to get a good look at his face.
That face; he looked wrecked. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide with longing, his cheeks flushed from the heat of their kisses, his shirt half-untucked from her pulling at it, trying to get her hands on his skin. For her part she knew she probably looked just as hungry, just as disheveled as he did, if not more; her hair was wild from his fingers raking through it, a lock of it tumbling across her face as she looked at him, though he reached out and brushed it back while he waited for her answer.
The plea behind his words was apparent; he'd phrased it as a demand, told her what to do, but it was a question, just the same. He wanted to come over tonight, wanted to kiss her more, wanted to fuck her, but he wouldn't do it unless she asked him. Wouldn't impose, wasn't gonna show up at her door unannounced, not for something as important as this. And he didn't deserve that, she thought, didn't deserve more confusion and doubt; what he deserved was to hear her speak plainly to him, to tell him precisely what she wanted, to make sure he knew that whatever he felt for her was returned in kind. Elliot had taken a great risk and thrown himself entirely at her mercy when he showed up at her office today, and it wasn't fair, for him to be the only one taking risks, the only one willing to be vulnerable. If they were gonna do this, they were gonna have to do it together.
But an impulsive clinch in her office on the tail end of a cataclysmic fight was not the same as inviting him over, deliberately and with intent. It wasn't the same as planning it, as stepping into intimacy, into sex, into romance, into the future with eyes wide open and a willing heart. Her children were at home, and she hadn't brought a man into that home since Tucker, since they were so small that they didn't even remember him now. To invite Elliot over would be to leap straight from days of not speaking to…to what? To whatever they were gonna be, she figured, to whatever this thing was gonna look like, to whatever they were gonna call it, when Elliot finally fucked her, when she finally let him. To invite him over would be to choose, not simply to react.
Was she ready to make that choice? What would happen to them if she wasn't?
You're never gonna be, she thought, looking at him, this man who was so strong, so brave, so handsome, so utterly devoted her that he had come here willing to fight and rail and rage for her, that he had come here because he would rather she hate him than spend another second apart from her. This man who was beautiful, in his own way, with his bright blue eyes and his slow, smug smile and those arms she desperately wanted to feel wrapped around her. This man who was everything to her, the thing she wanted most and the thing that terrified her most both at the same time. She was never gonna be ready, and maybe it was time she stopped waiting for a moment that was never gonna come; maybe it was time to stopping thinking about loving him, and just do it.
"Come over tonight, Elliot," she said in an unsteady voice.
There was that smile, that smile unlike any other, that smile that made her ironclad resolve waver, that smile that made her feel like a girl again, in love for the first time. He rocked forward, brushed her nose with the tip of his own, and she was smiling now, too, at the gentle, easy way he touched her, at the tender, hopeful affection of it.
"Can you cut out a little early?" he asked, hesitant but hopeful, still. Impatient, too, but then he always had been, wouldn't be her Elliot if he wasn't.
"Elliot-"
"We can go to the store. I'll cook dinner for the kids."
"Since when do you cook?"
"I cook," he insisted, his hands settling at her hips, drawing their bodies close together, like middle schoolers at a dance, almost, and on impulse she slid her arms around his neck, and smiled when she saw how pleased even that small gesture seemed to make him.
Part of her, the part of her that was Captain Benson, the part of her that took command seriously and used it as an excuse to spend more time at the station house than she ever did with a lover, wanted to tell him no. She had a job to do, and how impossible was he going to be if she didn't set some boundaries, if he thought he could just flash those blue eyes at her and get whatever he wanted, and shouldn't she take some time to prepare the kids for his arrival? Do this the right way, that part of her implored her.
Just be happy, the other half of her heart answered. For once, please, just let yourself be happy.
It was a Tuesday, and not a particularly busy one, and her squad was more than capable of managing themselves for a few hours, and her kids liked Elliot, and they were young and adaptable, anyway, and she was never gonna get this moment back. In the future maybe there would be other days and other nights and other dinners and other chances, but this moment, here, now, was the only time she was ever gonna stand in her office with his hands on her hips and the taste of him on her lips for the first time. There was only one first, and she was tired, so fucking tired, of thinking everything through, of having to be responsible for every goddamn thing in the world. She loved him, and she wanted him, and he wanted to cook her dinner. He wanted to hold her hand in the grocery store and move through her space like he belonged there and feed her children, and he hadn't forgotten them, the kids, hadn't been so focused on fucking her that he was willing to neglect Mia and Noah in the process, had instead already started to make a plan that included them, and she loved him for it, really she did.
"I wanna see you in an apron," she said, and he grinned, and kissed her again, quick and sweet, and this is where it starts, she thought. It was a new beginning, and she was hungry for it, in more ways than one.